The Betrayer
by gbbluemonday
Summary: There is something beautiful in enemies that cannot be found in friends: Enemies cannot betray each other. Casefic.
1. Chapter 1

**Is it wise of me to start an (extremely) ambitious project at such an inopportune time in the schedule of my life? Probably not, but I'm doing it anyway. Here's part one. My outline says this is going to be a twelve-chapter piece, the first of three. **

**WARNING: I suck a lot when it comes to consistency. Chances are this will take a very long time to reach its conclusion, if it ever arrives there at all. If you're willing to take the risk, read on.**

**Title: The Betrayer**

**Setting: Takes place at the beginning of season six, post-JJ and pre-Seaver, because that is when I started writing it.**

**Characters/pairings: All/none**

**Rating: T for language, violence, blood**

**Summary: There is something beautiful in enemies that cannot be found in friends: Enemies cannot betray each other. Casefic. **

"We have to distrust each other. It's our only defense against betrayal."—Tennessee Williams

"Envy is the ulcer of the soul." –Socrates

The lamp on the front porch flickered twice and then lit, a solitary pinprick in the otherwise impenetrable darkness of the porch. To the right of the front door, a quivering blue light flashed against the reflective surface of the darkened window pane as the television was turned on, nine o'clock exactly. Just in time for _Law and Order_. A moment later the front door opened and a slender woman in pink scrubs sidled through, calling a word of goodbye as she slid the door shut quietly. She dug through her purse for her keys while still in the light of the porch and then scurried off to her car, head down.

A man was watching her as she pulled out of the drive, but she did not notice him. She was too preoccupied with leaving quietly, keeping off of the gas as long as possible, enabling the man to move out of the trees that lined the drive and onto the gravel walkway that led to the front steps without being noticed. He watched the red taillights diminish as they pulled away, until they looked like the eyes of a beast peering out of the darkness at him. He smiled at the beast, a congenial smile of acquaintance, of mutual trust. He was in no danger of monsters here, not even the monsters of his imagination.

The car turned off of the long driveway at last, and the man turned to the stairs. He ascended each deliberately, avoiding the areas that creaked, his toes dancing over loose boards. A breeze rustled through the pines and wrapped around his torso. The night was trying to reclaim him, but the night was no more his master than the monsters it contained. He would as soon be here in the daylight, unlike the cowards he encountered in his work, but then the woman would still be here and that would not be…conducive.

He opened the door—the woman had not locked it—and stepped inside.

The house was dark, and underneath the heavy, false aroma of lilacs was a hint of mildew and decaying wood. This made him smile, as it always did—they could conceal the true nature of their lives, could pretend to the thrones on which they sat and gloated at creatures _they_ considered lesser, but they could not fool him, could not hide the rot beneath the glitter. He had always seen it and would always see it—and, when he was finished here, the rest of the world would see it as well. Those ignorant to the truth would be made to feel it by his hand, be made to acknowledge it by the power of _his_ works…his works, so devastatingly simple in the doing, so unfathomable in the viewing.

The television was at full volume. He could see a slick of hair protruding over the couch, but the man to whom it belonged did not turn around. He had not heard the door open, nor did he hear when it slid shut.

"Carl."

That he did hear. The man called Carl whipped around and leapt up at the same time, nearly spilling his drink as he did so. He caught the glass on the tips of his fingers and straightened with a laugh.

"Jesus," Carl said. "You scared the shit outta me."

The man smiled. "Sorry," he said. "The door was open." He jerked a thumb at the door and then reached to switch on the light. Carl groped for the remote and muted the television.

"Ah, that's Nancy," he said. "She never remembers to lock the fucking door. Guess she figures no one ever comes up here, so why bother? I'll have to tell her you proved her wrong when she gets home…what are you doing here anyway? Something wrong?"

"Not exactly. Do you mind if I sit down?"

Carl shrugged, but his eyes found the clock on the wall for the briefest moment, the tensing of his shoulders betraying his impatience. The man smiled and stepped off the foyer. Carl rotated on the spot as the man walked around him and took a seat in the armchair nearest the television, facing him. The man smiled beatifically.

"Do you want a drink?" said Carl, sinking back into the sofa, his eyes, this time, on the television. The man shook his head.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You're all right, aren't you? Nothing wrong at home?"

"I don't see what could be wrong. You know I live alone, Carl."

Carl laughed and took a sharp draw from his glass.

"And I envy you that, you know? Nancy's been on my ass all week, and I have to tell you, most days I can't remember why I got married at all. She just left, that's why you can't hear a steady stream of criticism from the other room."

"I'm sorry you're having trouble."

Carl grunted, watched someone get slammed against a cop car on the television, and glanced at the man.

"Sorry," he said. "You didn't show up in the middle of nowhere at this time of night to hear me talk about my Goddamn marriage. What's weighing on your mind?"

The man looked from Carl to the television, let his eyes rove over the leather furniture and the crystal light fixture which hung from the high ceiling. A picture of Carl and Nancy watched over the room from the mantle. In it, Nancy was smiling her pretty, full-lipped smile, her eyes bright and shining. Carl had one arm wrapped around her, his mouth stretched in a wide smile which showed of his large white teeth. The man felt something stir in his chest and then die. He looked back to Carl.

"It's actually something I've been thinking about for a long time, Carl," he said. "I've just been working up the nerve, I suppose."

Carl laughed again, but this time it was not derisive, but forced.

"You're not going to confess your love for me, are you? Because I don't think Nancy quite has me to the point where I'm going to swear off women."

The man's lips twitched into a smile that was as insincere as Carl's laugh. He ducked his head, reached into his jacket, and withdrew his gun.

The smile slid from Carl's face.

"Is this some sort of—?"

The sound of gunfire rebounded off of every wall in the cavernous room, but it was lost to the resonant silence beyond the walls of the house. Carl's drink flew out of his hand and exploded against the wall as blood burst from his chest in an expanding halo of red. Carl made a strangled, gasping noise, a noise shared between existing in the midst of pain and on the crest of death.

Slowly, the man rose from his chair. He tucked his gun back into his jacket and stepped over the shards of glass that separated him from Carl. His gaze swept over Carl's chest. It was a good shot—Carl was unmoving, but his chest continued to heave in futility as he struggled to draw breath into his body as his life leaked away onto the off-white carpet.

"Look at me, Carl."

The man spoke softly, so softly it was a wonder Carl heard him over the sound of his own breathing. But Carl's eyes found the man's and they stayed there, glistening with moisture and the sting of betrayal.

The man smiled, genuinely this time.

"Stay there, Carl," he said. "Don't move a muscle. I'm going to be right back."

And then the man got to work.


	2. Chapter 2

1.

"Reid, you're staring."

Reid looked around. Emily was standing over him, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow raised. She glanced at the stack of files at which Reid had been staring for the past minute and then back at him.

"Hoping you can finish your paperwork telepathically?" she said. "You're good, Dr. Reid, but not that good."

Reid frowned momentarily, recognized the joke, and smiled.

"Actually, technically I'd need telekinesis to finish my paperwork without touching it, since telepathy refers to the ability to communicate through the mind and not to the ability to manipulate the physical world without manual interaction but…" He trailed off, catching the look on Emily's face. "I'm actually not trying to do either."

Emily's eyebrow arched higher and she tapped her toe a few times, but her expression was torn between irritation and amusement. Reid suspected, as he always did when they had breaks longer than a few days between cases, that she was here because she found him amusing. Reid didn't mind it—she wasn't treating him as the kids in high school and even college had, like he was a sideshow at the carnival of their lives—because behind the façade of annoyance, she always seemed genuinely interested. He took the fact that she was not walking away as a sign that he should keep going, so he obliged.

"I just had déjà vu and I was thinking about it. Sorry if I distracted you."

"Distracted me from what? My own pile of paperwork?" Emily sank into her own desk chair, still watching him. "So you had déjà vu while staring at an enormous stack of files. I wonder why that happened." She smirked.

"Actually, no one really knows what causes déjà vu," said Reid. "Some people think that it might be an emotional reaction to events that the mind recognizes from the distant past and others believe it may be a hitch in the brain's process which causes it to retrieve old memories rather than convert the event into new ones, but when it comes down to it there really is no explanation. It's an anomaly in the brain's function. Of course, there are explanations which aren't concerned with the scientific aspects of the phenomenon. Psychopathologists believe that déjà vu is—"

"A glitch in the Matrix?"

Reid and Emily both looked around. Neither of them had noticed Morgan come up behind them, and Reid suspected that he had come over to join the conversation, probably to avoid his own paperwork.

"What?" said Reid.

"Glitch in the Matrix," said Morgan, resting his weight against Reid's desk and leaning back in a casual way which Reid would never be able to pull off, even in a situation like this, in which he was perfectly comfortable. "You know—the Matrix. Neo, Mr. Smith?"

Reid gave him a blank stare.

"You've _never_ seen _The Matrix_?" aid Emily, incredulous.

Reid shook his head.

"_Really_?"

"I don't understand. What did I miss?"

"Only one of the most popular movies of the last couple of decades," said Morgan, grinning. "I mean, I understand you not knowing a lot of the pop culture stuff, Reid—God knows _I_ wish I'd never found out who Justin Bieber is"—("Who?" said Reid.)—"but I figured _The Matrix _would be right up your alley. All that cyber fantasy, alternate reality stuff? I mean, didn't that pretty much start the whole idea of minds existing in computers?"

Reid had finally caught on. He remembered seeing commercials for the movie when he was working on his doctorates, but had not gone to see it because—

"You're talking about the cyberpunk genre," he said. "And actually that was started in nineteen eighty-two with _Blade Runner_, which was unique in that it's so rare for a genre of any literary merit to start with a movie. Granted, it was based on _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_, but the adaptation took so many liberties that it was practically an original work in itself. The beginning of the tradition of cyberpunk _novels_ is largely attributed to William Gibson's _Neuromancer_, and in fact the term 'the matrix' was—"

But Reid didn't get the opportunity to tell Prentiss and Morgan about the origins of the matrix, because at that moment Hotch swept by, tossing three files onto Reid's desk as he did.

"New case," he said.

"Oh man," said Emily, pushing herself to her feet. "Talk about saved by the bell."

"What do you mean?" said Reid, also getting to his feet.

Morgan and Prentiss glanced at each other, laughed, and Morgan clapped Reid on the shoulder.

"Don't even worry about it."

Reid got to his feet and followed Prentiss and Morgan into the round table room, still chatting. He allowed himself to back off as the conversation shifted away from him, thinking instead about what he had told Emily. He _had_ been experiencing déjà vu when she had come up behind him, but it had had nothing to do with the stack of files at which he had been staring. It had happened as he was walking into the bullpen that morning, his hands full of a mug of steaming coffee. It was stupid, nothing significant—déjà vu usually wasn't—but when one of the other agents had nodded amiably at him, he had been struck with a wave of familiarity so strong that it had stopped him in place for a moment, trying to maintain the sensation. He had only moved again when a desk agent whose name he did not know nearly rammed into him on her way in.

Déjà vu was common—he'd had it every once and a while his entire life—but lately he'd been having it all over the place, in the round table room, walking into his bedroom—and though rationally he knew the sense of foreboding it gave was nothing, on a more visceral level it was starting to spook him just a little.

But it was not spooking him enough to bring it up. Like the fear of the dark, it was really just an issue of not being able to see the light.

Hotch, Rossi, and Garcia were all in the round table room when they entered, making Reid the last. He shut the door and threw himself into the nearest seat. Whatever humor lingered from their previous conversation dissipated as they all took their seats; Hotch had a particularly somber look on his face, and Garcia was already fumbling with the clicker, trying to work her face into a look of composure.

Garcia cleared her throat, waited to make sure she had everyone's attention. It was hard, as usual, _not_ too look at her. Today's motif was acid green, a faux leather jacket on top of a frilly skirt. The outfit clashed with the solemn look on her face.

"Carl Hanes," said Garcia as the first picture appeared on screen. A man in his fifties, sprawled on an expensive couch, eyes wide and blood blossoming from his chest. "Killed in his home just outside of Portland, Maine last night around nine fifteen pm. He was shot twice, once in the abdomen and once in the chest."

She clicked and another picture appeared, another man, this one younger than the first by at least ten years, black. He was lying on an expensive carpet, face-up, and his shirt, too, was saturated in blood.

"Clarence Dean was killed five days ago, same MO. And finally…" A third picture, same as the first two but with a white man well into his sixties. "Earl Shane. Found ten days ago. Also shot twice in his home."

"Those are some radically different victims in terms of age and race," said Morgan.

"Yeah, that's not the freaky part," said Garcia, "and by freaky I of course mean really, really gross and messed up. He shot them with their own guns."

"What?" said Prentiss, leaning forward. "You mean he was in the home waiting for them when they got back?"

Garcia shook her head. "No, I mean he shot them once in the stomach so they couldn't move and then went off in search of their own guns while they were lying there bleeding. Then he came back and…shot them again, this time with their own guns. He leaves the victims' guns at the scene, but the local police haven't been able to get any prints so far, no DNA. There's actually no evidence that he ever touches the victims at all, which I thought was super weird, because don't they usually, you know, _like_ touching them?"

"Sexual sadists do," said Rossi, "but sexual sadists prefer knives, and our guy uses a gun. The fact that he subdues them before killing them would suggest that he's a small man—maybe he doesn't touch them because he's afraid of a physical altercation."

"Yeah, but why use the first shot to subdue them at all?" said Emily. "Why not just go in for the kill, why go through the trouble of finding the other gun?"

"It might be some sort of ritual," said Reid. "Or symbolic in some way. He's saying they impaled themselves on their own swords—literally. He's saying…their deaths are their own fault."

"I think it's more than that," said Hotch. "Look at the way they're all positioned—they're on their backs, exposed, but they're all looking up. According to the ME's report on"—he consulted the file—"Shane, he was positioned perfectly to be looking at the unsub when he took the second shot."

"So he likes looking at them when he kills them," Morgan concluded.

"Or he likes them looking at him," said Rossi. "Garcia, what do we have on the victims? The local PD don't think they're random, do they?"

"Almost certainly not, sir," said Garcia, turning back to her clicker. This time an image of all three men, alive and side-by-side appeared. "Though they don't know what the pattern is yet. Earl was a prosecutor for the state, and Clarence was a child advocate, but despite the fact that they both worked for the state there's no evidence that either of them ever had any contact at all. And besides that, neither of them have any apparent connection to the third victim, Carl Hanes, who was a decorated cop."

Emily shook her head. "So…why don't they think they're random?"

"There's no way they're random," said Reid, who had been studying his file while the conversation progressed. "Each of the murders took place five days apart, almost to the minute, and not a single one of the houses showed evidence of forced entry. What's more, the unsub not only knew that the men had guns, it seems like he knew _where_ the guns were, since he got to them before any of the men were able to move or call for help. A gunshot to the abdomen will make it difficult to move, but not impossible—he'd have to be quick, he couldn't rely on their wounds to totally immobilize them. He planned each of these murders, probably watched the victims for weeks, even months."

"So he's highly organized," said Morgan, "which also suggests that he's probably compulsive to some degree. If he's killing every five days…"

"Then we have just over four days before he kills again," said Hotch. "Garcia, I want you on the victims. Find anything that might connect them to one another. Everyone else—wheels up in thirty minutes."


	3. Chapter 3

3.

"I was expecting more of you."

The officer in charge of the investigation, a tall, formidable man who had the clean-cut weary look of one who had been a cop his entire life, crossed his arms over his chest as Rossi and Hotch stepped under the yellow tape that cordoned the house off from the rest of the property. His whole face was tight with anger and resentment—the latter being directed at Hotch and Rossi. He did not make to shake their hands as they approached him, and his eyes slid over their suits, sizing them up with apparent dislike.

"You must be Detective Kramer," said Hotch, though, reading the man's body language, he did not offer his hand. "I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner, this is SSA David Rossi."

"And I suppose the two of you are some sort of superhero team? Two guys to solve the murders my supposedly inept men couldn't figure out?"

"We have two other agents interviewing the families of the other victims, and another went straight to the station to begin working on a geographic profile," said Hotch, too used to this type of reaction from local law enforcement to rise. "I assure you, we're only here to help. We want to catch this man as much as you do."

Kramer scoffed, digging his fists into his armpits.

"I doubt that," he said. "You're not the one who just had to zip one of the best cops you've ever known into a body bag. I didn't call you, you know. That was the mayor, thought we might not be able to be _objective_ since it was a cop that got killed. Well, I say _fuck_ objectivity, but that's exactly what the mayor didn't want to hear. I guess it doesn't matter. You're here now, whatever it's worth."

"We're very sorry for your loss," said Rossi. "And we understand the personal nature of this particular crime for your department. We only want to help find the guy who did this and stop him from doing it again."

Kramer scoffed again, but did not make any further derisive comment, instead turning to look at the house which stood in the background. The two-story house was late Victorian in style, probably authentic, but despite its age it was lovingly maintained: The paint was fresh even around the trim, the hedges that lined the driveway immaculately clipped into perfect rectangles. This was a place reeked of human caring and emanated the pride of the owner; the darkened windows and silent police cars made it look unnaturally cold, like an unlit stove.

"We've already had the CSA people in to look around. They've collected any evidence worth collecting, not that there was much. I had the body—Carl—taken down to the morgue for the ME to look at. I don't really see what else you can do here."

Any irritation Hotch might have felt at the less-than-warm welcome vanished as he heard the tremble in Kramer's voice, masked behind a desperate imitation of impassivity. Hotch had only to imagine for a second what it would be like to lose a member of his own team for his sympathy to kick in, and when he spoke, it was in the softest voice he could manage while still sounding stoically professional.

"The BAU has a different approach to these crime scenes, sir. We're not looking for material evidence; we're looking for anything which might help us understand who the man who attacked Carl is."

Kramer hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He signaled to the two cops who were standing by the front steps to move and led Rossi and Hotch through the front door.

"There was no sign of forced entry," said Kramer, "but Nancy—his wife—said she always left the door unlocked when Carl was home. It's a pretty remote place, you know, they never really worried about intruders. Would have been easy for someone to slip in while the TV was up."

He waved them across the threshold. Hotch and Rossi glanced at each other as they stepped into the living room, and Rossi said, "We're going to need to talk to Mrs. Hanes as well. The report said the attack happened just minutes after she left for the night shift; she might have seen something without realizing it."

"We already questioned her," said Kramer, his voice tense again.

"Of course," said Rossi, "we're not suggesting you missed something. Again, we just have different methods of finding things out."

"We have the same goal here, Detective Kramer," said Hotch again.

Kramer snorted. "Well, I'll try to get in touch with her, but I wouldn't hold out for it. She said she was going to stay with her sister, but when we called the sister said she never showed up. If it weren't for the fact that there have been two other murders, I'd say she looked good for it."

"Mr. and Mrs. Hanes had marital troubles?" said Hotch.

"You could say that. From what Carl said Nancy was…less than satisfactory as a wife. Didn't understand how hard it is to be a cop, didn't like the hours. Carl was just doing his job, you know, and Nancy knew what she was signing up for when she married him."

Again, Hotch and Rossi exchanged a glance.

"The report also said that Mrs. Hanes works the night shift at the local ER," said Rossi.

"So?"

"So those hours must be pretty exhausting as well."

Kramer rounded on him.

"Look, is this relevant somehow? I already told you there's no way Nancy could have done the other two murders, why would she?"

Rossi nodded courteously and said, "You're probably right. I'm sorry. Please continue."

Kramer nodded and moved forward a few feet, allowing Hotch just enough time to murmur, "Ill text Garcia, ask if any of the other victims were having marital problems," before they followed Kramer onto the crime scene.

The living room was a reflection of the outside: perfectly maintained, furniture almost obsessively selected and coordinated. The CSAs had left the television on, but it was muted, and were it not for the fact that there was a wide blood stain on the couch facing the television, Carl Hanes might have just left the room.

"Did your guys put the television on mute?" said Rossi.

"No, it was like that when we came in."

Judging from the blood stains, Mr. Hanes was watching when the unsub came in," said Rossi, bending down to examine the couch.

"Yeah, the remote was next to him when they found him."

Hotch frowned.

"Hanes had the remote?"

"Yeah, he liked to watch _Law and Order_ when he got off his shift. Why? Is that relevant?"

"That would suggest that Hanes was the one who put the television on mute," said Hotch.

"Maybe he didn't like it loud."

Hotch picked up the remote and pressed the mute button. The volume blared to life so loudly that Rossi and Kramer actually pressed their hands to their ears. Hotch muted it again and set the remote down.

"You said you thought the unsub was able to get in undetected because the victim was surprised by the TV," he said. "But this would suggest that he had time to mute his show before he was shot. Why not just turn it off, if he suspected someone was in the house? And look at where he was found."

He gestured to the bloodstain which, until now, Kramer had avoided.

"So?"

"So, the victim was shot in the stomach and chest, correct?" said Rossi, crossing the room to the chair opposite the bloody couch. "Two rounds to his front suggest the unsub was right about here when he shot Hanes. How did he get such a clear shot without getting noticed? Why are there no signs of a struggle?"

"He must have come in fast, surprised him."

"Then why mute the television?" said Hotch.

Kramer was beginning to look frustrated, his brow wrinkled in a frown as he looked from Rossi to Hotch.

"What are you trying to say?"

Hotch glanced at Rossi who nodded and took out his cell phone, presumably to call Garcia, leaving the explanation to Hotch. Hotch turned back to Kramer, looked him straight in the eye.

"Hanes wasn't surprised, Detective Kramer. He knew the unsub."

* * *

Mrs. Shane sat stiff-backed in her armchair, her eyes fixed firmly on the untouched cup of tea on the spotless coffee table. Emily and Morgan sat across from her, Emily clutching her own tea, Morgan leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. They were waiting for her to speak—two minutes with the woman was enough to tell them that they weren't going to be able to coerce any information out of her. Mrs. Shane cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry we had to meet here," she said, "I know it's not much, but I haven't been able to go home since Earl was shot."

Emily and Morgan exchanged a glance. They were sitting in the nicest hotel in Portland, sipping imported tea from expensive china—but this wasn't what caught Morgan's attention. It was rare to hear a victim's family refer to an attack so bluntly, particularly when it was so fresh in their memory. Mrs. Shane's husband had been the first victim, killed eleven days ago. She had just finished visiting with the last of the mourners from the funeral before returning to her hotel to meet them.

Mrs. Shane was a small woman in her sixties, but there was no mistaking that she was formidable; from the moment she had sat them down she had been dry-eyed and matter of fact, not enough to be suspicious, but enough that Emily and Morgan knew not to try anything tricky with her. Though her eyes were on the coffee table when she spoke, every so often they would dart around the room and then come to rest on Emily's low-cut blouse or the edge of Morgan's tattoo, which was peeking out from under his tee shirt.

"This is perfectly fine, ma'am," said Emily. "We understand this is extremely difficult."

"I've already spoken to the police," said Mrs. Shane. "On several occasions. I've told them everything I know, which isn't much."

"We understand that, ma'am, we just need to be sure we're being as thorough as possible," said Emily. She set her tea down and reached around to retrieve the Shane file from her bag. She set it on the table and pulled out the police report from the night of Earl Shane's murder. "It says here your housekeeper was the one to find your husband, not yourself?"

"That's correct. I have book club Wednesday evenings, so Anna comes over to make Earl dinner around nine thirty."

"Nine thirty's pretty late to eat dinner," said Morgan.

Mrs. Shane looked around at him, her expression one of barely concealed disgust.

"My husband worked late," she said, "though I can see how you might not understand that. He had indigestion if he ate while he was working. He always took his meals late during the week."

"Mrs. Shane, did your husband have any enemies?" said Emily, glancing at Morgan before redirecting Mrs. Shane's attention to her.

"My husband was a prosecutor for the state," said Mrs. Shane. "He had more enemies than I could count on both hands. It was part of his job."

"Was there anyone who stood out? Someone from the office who never seemed to like him, a client who called all the time—or maybe didn't call at all? Sometimes small details—"

She was cut off by the buzzing of a cell phone. It was Morgan's; he muttered an apology and excused himself to the hallway, not all that cut up about having to leave the interview with the woman who was so obviously stuck in the seventeenth century. He shut the door quietly behind him, checked the caller ID, and grinned as he answered.

"Tell me you've solved the case, Baby Girl, because I would really love an excuse not to finish this interview."

He could hear Garcia's devilish smile through the phone, and it was enough to make him temporarily forget the puritan in the other room.

"You know I'm the superhero on this crime fighting team, Sweet Cheeks, but while I have no doubt that the final breathtaking climax if this mystery will have me swooping in to save the day, even I cannot work my miracles that fast."

"Ah, you know I love it when you talk in innuendos, Garcia."

Garcia's laughter traveled through the phone line and materialized as a warm and comforting entity on the other end.

"And you know I love it when you think dirty, Monsieur, but it just so happens that I'm a professional. As much as I'd like to play sexy phone games with you, right now we have business to attend to." A pause, and she added, "Real business."

Morgan laughed again and said, "What do you have for me?"

"Mm, I may not have your guy for you just yet, but I did do some digging into the wives as per Hotch's request and I found out that Mr. Policeman AKA Carl Hanes was not such a hero in blue to his wife. There was a domestic call made last month when the couple got into an argument at the local mall, and according to witnesses it _almost_ came to blows. It looks like one of Hanes's cop friends cleaned the whole thing up, but because I am brilliant and superhero-like, I was able to find it."

"What about the other couples?"

"Well, that's where the trail goes cold, unfortunately. Mr. and Mrs. Shane were married for nearly forty years without so much as a complaint from the neighbors, although they made plenty themselves. They were heads of the HOA, co-chairs on the neighborhood council, and, though their children are all grown, the heads of PTA. The couple seemed to be the Mommy Dearests of their neighborhood family, but they were always in on it together, like evil conjoined twins. As for Clarence Dean, his wife died of breast cancer three years ago, but from what I've read there is no way he was abusive. If the Shanes were the evil stepmothers of their community, then Clarence Dean was the Mother Theresa in his. He worked at the local shelter, volunteered at the community center with troubled youths, was a frequent volunteer with the neighborhood watch, and spent his weekends cleaning up parks. The man was so nice he would have made Manson a model citizen if they'd ever had the chance to shake hands."

Morgan ran a hand over his head in frustration. "So in other word there's no connection."

"I briefly entertained a theory that your unsub was killing men with single-syllable last names, but even for a crazy that seemed like too much work. Sorry, Pumpkin, but it looks like you're going to have to go back to interviewing the banshee. _But_, I am looking into the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"Hotch and Rossi think the third victim knew his attacker. I pulled up the other crime scenes, and judging from the way they were attacked, Dean and Shane both knew him as well. I'm running everyone they ever came in contact with through the computer, and if there's a common denominator I'll let you know."

"All right, thanks Baby Girl. Get back to me as soon as you have anything."

"Will do. Garcia out!"

Garcia hung up before Morgan could stall any further. Sighing, he stuffed the phone back into his pocket and turned back to Mrs. Shane's hotel room.

"Sorry about that," he said as he resumed his seat. "That was our technical analyst back at Quantico."

"What did Garcia say?" Emily asked, obviously eager to cease conversation with Mrs. Shane. Whatever they had discussed in the brief moments Morgan had been out of the room had put a sour, fixed look on Emily's face.

"She talked to Hotch a minute ago, they think the victims may have known the unsub." He turned to Mrs. Shane. "Ma'am, we're going to need you to write down anyone your husband may have come in contact with in the past few months—if you can remember up to a year, that would be especially helpful."

Mrs. Shane drew back. "You think my husband _knew_ the man who did this?"

"We think it's very possible, ma'am."

For the first time since the interview had started, Mrs. Shane looked taken aback. She pressed a hand to her chest.

"Well, shouldn't I write down the—the people who had something against him? He had quite a few people at the office who were jealous of his success. Just a minute ago you were asking me about his enemies, shouldn't I—?"

"Actually, Mrs. Shane," said Emily, with a sideways glance at Morgan, "given the nature of these murders, it's more likely the perpetrator and your husband were on friendly terms. They may have even been close."

Mrs. Shane swallowed hard, her mouth hardening into a thin line.

"You think one of our _friends_ did this?"

Emily sighed.

"It's actually more common than you might think."

Mrs. Shane shook her head. "Earl kept very good company."

Emily and Morgan exchanged another glance. Emily shook her head fractionally and then reached into her pocket and withdrew a pad of paper and a pen. She set these on the coffee table and slid them across to Mrs. Shane, who pressed her hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," said Emily as gently as she could, "we're going to need those names."


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Reid had known the moment he had entered the station that this was not going to be an easy case. Not that it was any more or less difficult than anything they had run across in the past, but with most unsubs they were able to count on the support of the local police, and in this instance he could see that was not going to be the case. It was not hard to deduce the other officers' dislike for him simply by looking at the scowls with which most of them regarded him, and when he had asked for a room in which to work and been stuck in what amounted to a broom closet with a window, it had merely served to cement that suspicion. There was a reason they waited for official invitations—though he had to wonder why anyone invested in catching their friend's killer would not welcome help in the investigation, perhaps even going so far as to hinder it.

And this room could hardly be called anything _but_ a hindrance, especially since Reid was not exactly graceful when his mind was occupied. He had already dropped his stack of maps detailing the area twice, and was just stooping over to gather the box of markers he had sent flying when he had knocked into the too-large table, rubbing his elbow at the same time, when there was a knock at the door.

"Uh—come in," he said, seizing a handful of markers and attempting to stand. He knocked his head against the corner of the table, making him wince and tipping his glasses askew.

"Watch out for that," said a voice which, Reid saw as he straightened his glasses, belonged to a uniformed cop who was standing in the doorway, another, shorter cop standing behind him. "I couldn't tell you why they put such a huge table in such a little room, but if I had a nickel for every bruise it had given me I wouldn't be working here." The two cops stepped into the room, effectively closing off every inch of free space with their bodies, and the first one stuck his hand out.

"Bill Sanders," he said. He was a handsome, blonde man with an easy smile and manner of talking which set Reid in conflict between wanting to like him immediately and being suspicious of his motives. He ended up returning the smile halfheartedly and a little nervously, trying to hold it as Sanders stepped aside to let the other cop come forward. Reid took his hand too, trying to suppress thoughts of the hand sanitizer in his bag.

"Leon Delbrooke," said the second man, who was shorter and about five years older than Sanders. "You're Agent Reid, right?"

"Yeah," said Reid. "Yeah, Agent Reid or Doctor—actually, Agent is fine, or…you can call me anything you want," he finished lamely.

Sanders grinned, and though Reid could tell Delbrooke was trying not to crack a smile he looked on somberly, his expression that of a particularly serious student. Reid cleared his throat.

"So…can I help you with anything or…?"

"Oh, right," said Sanders, "uh, this is usually our office, but since you're using it we were told to come see if you needed any help."

Reid looked once around the room, taking in the stacks of boxes and the dusty light streaming through the narrow window in rivulets, and tried to imagine working in it on any regular basis.

"Your office?" he repeated.

The easy grin continued to shine on Sanders' face.

"We're rookies," he said. "Just graduated the academy two months ago, and the captain likes to stick us on grunt work every once and a while just to put us in our place. We usually finish backlogged paperwork, but since you're here…"

He trailed off, looking at Reid expectantly, and Reid realized that his grin was eager. He was excited at the concept of solving a murder. Delbrooke, too, was staring at him with a more controlled expression of interest, as if waiting for Reid to send them on a mission. Reid immediately went still, trying to quell the urge to squirm under their stares.

"Um," he said, "I don't want to be a disappointment, but I'm actually going to be working on the least exciting part of the profile, and it sort of requires a minimum amount of training which can only be acquired through study and experience, so you might want to see if there's something else—"

"No thanks, sir." Sanders cut across him. "That's why we're here—study and experience. Right, Delbrooke?"

At last, Delbrooke's mask of seriousness slipped incrementally, allowing a small smile to spill through.

"Sorry for Sanders, sir," he said, though his voice was affectionate rather than reprimanding. "It's pretty hard to get him off his cloud. But we would like to help you in any way we can."

Reid considered them both for a moment before deciding he would rather be locked in this closet with some company than alone and nodding.

"Okay," he said, "do either of you know what a geographic profile is?"

Reid spent a few moments explaining the basics and then sent the two officers to work marking the maps—which neighborhoods were nicest, which were poorest, which areas shared distinguishing features, and the like. Though they were all tasks which Spencer could have easily accomplished on his own, it was nice to have some company in the dingy room, especially as Delbrooke and Sanders eased into their comfort zone, chatting amiably between one another and occasionally asking Reid questions. Sanders seemed particularly interested in the procedures of the FBI, sometimes only ceasing his constant flow of questions at a quiet reminder from Delbrooke that they were working. By the time they had put together a single working map of the area, the tension in Reid's shoulders had eased to the point where he felt comfortable asking a question of his own.

"So I take it neither of you knew Carl Hanes?"

The atmosphere in the room chilled so quickly it might have literally turned to ice. Reid turned away from the map pinned to the whiteboard and found the two cops staring at him, their mouths hard lines.

"I'm sorry," Reid said, "I didn't mean to—I mean, if you were his friends…just, everyone else here seemed angry that we were here, and you two…"

"We knew him," said Sanders, "but we weren't his friends."

Reid looked to Delbrooke, who did not look him in the eye.

"I don't understand," said Reid.

Delbrooke looked to Sanders, but Sanders has redirected his attention to the map in front of him, and, seizing a red marker, he began slashing harsh lines through a large area. Delbrooke sighed and looked back to Reid.

"Bill didn't think Hanes was much of a cop," he said.

Before Reid could reply, Sanders tossed the marker aside and looked up.

"I didn't have any problem with him as a cop," he said. "I just didn't think much of him as a person."

Reid raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, I don't know exactly what you mean."

This time Sanders looked to Delbrooke, and Delbrooke obliged.

"There was a call about a month ago," he said. "Domestic disturbance at the local mall. Sanders responded with another cop, one who knew Hanes. He and his wife were in some sort of fight, Sanders broke it up."

Sanders snorted. "He would have beaten her black and blue before we showed up if it hadn't been for the fact that there were hundreds of people around. And you could tell he'd done it before by the way she looked at him. I tried to get her to press charges, take out a restraining order, something, but she was too scared and Hanes was too well-respected. The cop I was with got him out of any charges and I got stuck on a desk job."

"I thought you said it was grunt work," Reid blurted before he could stop himself. Sanders looked at him sharply, then back down at the table, rolling a pen across the map moodily.

"I just don't think it's any way to treat a woman," he muttered.

Reid opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment his phone buzzed at his hip, and he turned away to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Reid?" Emily's voice, vaguely impatient, said on the other end. "Where are you? I thought you were at the station."

"I am," said Reid. "I'm just—in the back."

"What? Well, come out to the front. Everyone's back, we're waiting for you."

Still pressing the phone to one ear, Reid grabbed his notepad from the table and stuffed it under his arm, then seized the files for the first two murders and did the same.

"I'll be right there," he said. He flipped the phone shut and turned to Sanders and Delbrooke.

"Uh—I have to go talk to my team can you two just…continue without me?"

Without waiting for an answer Reid exited the tiny room, almost tripping over himself as he attempted to jog down the narrow hallway into the bullpen while simultaneously transferring his notes to his hands. He rounded the corner with the notepad clutched between his teeth and found the rest of his team gathered around the main whiteboard, which housed pictures of the victims, crime scenes, and autopsies.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't know you guys were back. Did I miss anything?"

"It's fine," said Hotch, "we were just about to start. Did you find anything?"

Reid nodded, dropped his notepad on the table, and picked up the victim files.

"I actually had some trouble with this one at first," he said, striding over to the board and making space for his notes. "There's actually no real pattern to where the victims lived—Hanes' house was in the woods, Shane's was near a private golf course, and Dean lived on the outskirts of an urban development. What's more there's really no pattern to the location. Hanes and Shane lived only a few minutes apart, while Dean was a good twenty minute drive from either of their houses, and none of the victims had any reason to ever cross paths, no similar social circles, no common relatives, and even if any of them had kids, none of them would have gone to the same schools."

"So in other words you've got nothing," said Morgan.

"No, not at all," said Reid. "When I realized there was no pattern to _where _the victims lived I started looking at the houses themselves. That's where the pattern emerged. All of our victims lived in homes built in the early eighteen hundreds."

"That's not too uncommon in this area," said Hotch, shaking his head. "And anyone can buy an old house if they have the money, and none of our victims were badly off."

"True," said Reid, turning back to his notes and digging out a sheet he had found which listed housing records of the past hundred years, "anyone can buy an old house, but none of our victims did. They inherited them—all three. Hanes, Shane, and Dean all lived in homes which had been owned by their families for at least two generations."

Rossi raised his eyebrows.

"Three inherited homes," he said. "That's certainly a connection."

"Yeah, but what does it mean?" said Emily. "You think our guy is killing these men because he's jealous of their _houses_?"

Reid paused for a moment. Though he had discerned a connection between the victims, he had not yet determined the connection between the houses and the murders.

"Well, it's a connection anyway," said Hotch before Reid could answer. "We'll start from there and see what else we can find. Morgan, Prentiss, did you get anything out of Mrs. Shane?"

Emily stepped forward and handed Hotch a piece of paper filled with minute cursive.

"A lot of nasty looks," she said, "and a list of Earl Shane's contacts. If it's someone he knew, it's likely he's on that list. Unfortunately, Earl Shane knew a lot of people."

"We'll get it to Garcia, see if there's anyone on there who didn't come up in her search, see if she can cross-reference it with the others."

"You think the victims knew the unsub?" said Reid.

"It's a theory we're working with," said Hotch, "but there's no connection between the victims yet, and no real reason to suggest that anyone would want them killed."

"Unless you count being the world's worst neighbor as a good reason to commit murder," said Morgan.

"Could the killings be mission-based?" said Reid.

Everyone turned to him.

"What makes you say that, Reid?" said Hotch.

Reid shook his head. "It's just a thought, but it seems like Hanes had a reputation concerning his marital problems, and lawyers are often first on mission-based killers' lists. He could be killing to send a message."

"Except Clarence Dean was a living saint," said Morgan. "There's no reason anyone would kill him as an example."

"No reason that we know of," said Hotch. "But for now let's run with it. Morgan, you and Rossi go to Dean's house and see if you can find anything untoward. Reid, keep working the house angle. Emily, you come with me. We're going to see if we can find Mrs. Hanes. Let's reconvene here when we're done—and try to be ready to give the profile."


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Clarence Dean's house was by no means as nice as the homes of the other two victims—no perfectly manicured lawn, no grand staircase or offices hidden behind bookcases—but despite its lack of these amenities, it had the immediate aura of welcome. The fresh paint on the outside, the rosebushes lining the front walk, healthy but a little wild, the tacky sign on the door depicting a bass with a speech bubble that said "WELCOME" made Clarence Dean's the first place that Morgan and Rossi had been in where they had not felt like they were intruders on an exclusive club.

Of course, the warmth of the home was cooled by the presence of death, which hung over the place like a fog. Even before they had gotten out of the car, Morgan and Rossi could see the stacks of flowers lined along the outside of Dean's fence, their bright colors dulled by the knowledge of the reason they had been left. Even as they stepped onto the curb, a young woman rounded the corner and placed a bunch of lilies along the chain link fence. She caught sight of Morgan and Rossi as she straightened, and she immediately ducked her head, tucking her hands into her armpits. Before they could say anything, she turned sharply and walked back in the direction she had come, disappearing around the corner.

"Why do I feel like we're going to have a hard time finding anything terrible on this guy?" said Morgan, watching the spot where the girl had disappeared, and where the shadowy imprint of her closed-off figure seemed to remain.

"Probably because there isn't anything," said Rossi. "Not anything worth killing over, anyway."

Morgan shook his head. "Mission-based killers don't have to be rational, though," he said. "We might as well check it out while we're here—maybe the unsub was punishing Dean for a personal transgression which got blown out of proportion."

They stepped over the pile of flowers and made their way down the walk, ducked under the police tape across the door, and used the key they had gotten from the local PD to get inside. Once they were across the foyer, Rossi said, "You don't really think these are mission-based, do you?"

Morgan, who had already started for the living room, where the murder had taken place, turned around.

"What makes you say that?"

"This guy hasn't tried to make contact with the media, he hasn't called the police or posted anything blatantly obvious online. If our unsub were trying to send a message don't you think he would have…sent a message?"

Morgan sighed and ran a hand over his head.

"Yeah," he said, "I don't think it fits either. It's too clean—mission based killers are opportunists, they kill when they can, or when they see the need. They don't plan this carefully, they don't have the self-control to make their kills so evenly spaced. It would have been nice, though. Mission-based killer would have explained why there's no connection between the victims. Now where are we supposed to go?"

Rossi smiled and stepped in front of Morgan.

"Just because we haven't found the connection doesn't mean there isn't one."

Morgan nodded, swallowed his frustration, and followed Rossi into the living room.

The living room was small but bright, clean but for the bloodstain on the carpet where Dean had fallen.

"Pictures of his wife on the mantle," Rossi said, "right next to pictures of kids. Judging by the range in age and race, I'd say these are kids Dean helped. Nothing malicious here."

"We should take the pictures, though, get some names. There's a possibility one of them might know who our unsub is."

"You think these kids run in the same circles as the guy who killed a prominent lawyer and a cop?" Rossi raised an eyebrow. "And I think we can safely rule them out as suspects—like you said, our guy is too controlled, too methodical. I say we leave them out of it, give Garcia a break from trying to rule out the entire population."

Morgan nodded again, still trying to quell the nagging feeling that this whole trip had been a waste of time, and returned his attention to the crime scene, where he began digging through Dean's desk.

A few more moments of searching proved fruitless. If they had been searching for the world's most selfless man they might have gone to the right place: Dean had awards for every form of civil service imaginable, letters from kids he had helped out of abusive homes or bad situations, gifts from grateful members of the community…but not a single thing that would lend sense to why he had been killed, or who had done it.

"Ah!"

Fifteen minutes had passed before Morgan's impatience got away with him. Tossing down a stack of papers, he turned to Rossi.

"Come on, Rossi, let's get out of here. We're not going to find any…"

He trailed off as Rossi pressed a finger to his lips. He was not looking at Morgan, but staring at the ceiling, his head turned slightly to the right to listen, his mouth drawn in a frown.

"What—?"

Then Morgan heard it: a dull thump from upstairs, not loud, but unmistakably human.

Morgan pulled his gun from his hip and took a step toward the stairs, signaling Rossi to follow behind. He mounted the stairs to the side to avoid creaky steps and ascended quickly, his gun held out in front of him. The upstairs hall was dark and musty, the air thick from long-closed windows. On the top step Morgan hesitated, pricking his ears until he heard it again; another dull thump carried through the closed door of the nearest bedroom.

Morgan looked around to confirm that Rossi was right behind him and jerked his head toward the door. Rossi nodded, drawing his own gun and stepping up and around a corner to give Morgan clearer access to the door. Morgan stepped up beside it, pressed himself against the door, and pointed his gun at the opposite door. He looked at Rossi, who nodded once more.

"FBI!" Morgan shouted. "Come out slowly with your hands above your head!"

There was another thud, louder and sharper than the previous ones, followed by the muffled sound of rapid footsteps. The bedroom door flew open and something streaked past Morgan before he could seize it.

Rossi was luckier. The figure that had come bursting out of the bedroom did not see him standing in the corner, and as he made for the stairs Rossi leapt forward and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, slamming him against the wall.

Morgan jumped forward to take over as Rossi stepped back. He seized the back of the guy's shirt and forced him around so that he was facing both agents.

"Get your hands offa me, man, I didn't do nothin' wrong!"

"Then why you running, huh?" said Morgan.

The guy swallowed, and as Morgan got his first look he saw that he hardly even counted as a guy yet, he was so young—fifteen at the most, and wearing a red t-shirt and too-large jeans. He had his chin stuck out in defiance, but Morgan could see the tremble of his bottom lip which betrayed his terror. He loosed his grip on the kid's shirt ever so slightly and softened his voice.

"What are you doing in this house? You know this is a crime scene, right?"

"Shit, I know that—!"

"Watch your language!" Morgan barked. "You gonna tell me what you're doing in here?"

"I wasn't doing nothin'!" the kid said. "I didn't do nothin' wrong, he said I could come over whenever I wanted—"

"Who said?"

The kid's eyes darted to Rossi, but Morgan could imagine the impassive look on Rossi's face, and he knew the kid saw it too, because the next second his eyes were back on Morgan.

"_Who_ said?"

"Clarence, man," said the kid. "Shit, who else? He owns the place, doesn't he?"

"Didn't I tell you to watch your language?" Morgan said. "How did you know Clarence Dean?"

"Come on man, I didn't do anything!"

"Just answer the question, son," said Rossi.

The kid's eyes flickered to Rossi and then back to Morgan once more. Morgan raised his eyebrows. The kid dropped his gaze.

"He knew my mom, all right?" said the kid. "I used to come over here sometimes, you know, to eat or sleep if I didn't have a place. Clarence was good about that sh—stuff, you know?"

Morgan looked around at Rossi, who nodded slightly. Morgan looked back at the kid.

"All right," he said. "If you promise not to run I'm gonna let you go. I got your word on that, man?"

The kid looked at Morgan sharply, then looked back at the ground and nodded. Slowly, Morgan unclenched the fist he had formed around the kid's shirt and lowered the arm that had been bracing him against the wall. As soon as he was free the kid tugged his shirt straight and wiped his nose with his arm.

"You gonna arrest me?" he muttered.

Rossi stepped forward. "Not today," he said, "but as long as we've got you here, you might as well answer a few questions."

"I don't know who killed Clarence," said the kid sullenly.

"That's all right," said Rossi. "That's what we're here to figure out. But maybe you can help us. What's your name?"

The kid sniffed. "Ambrose."

"All right, Ambrose. Why don't we go downstairs to talk for a minute?"

Morgan took Ambrose by the arm without waiting for an answer, though he gripped him as gently as was appropriate for the situation. He led them downstairs and past the living room, back onto the foyer where the blood on the living room floor was not visible. Rossi stepped in front of the door to bar Ambrose from another escape attempt, and Morgan turned him around to address them.

"All right, Ambrose, you wanna tell us what you were doing in the bedroom?"

Ambrose didn't answer, but his hands immediately went into his pockets.

Morgan held his hand out.

"All right, kid, hand it over."

"Hand what over?" Ambrose snapped.

"Whatever it is you got in your pocket. What'd you take out of the bedroom?"

Ambrose looked to Rossi, who shrugged.

"You can give it to him or he can take it from you. Personally I'm fine with either."

Ambrose made a noise somewhere between frustration and disgust and withdrew a crumpled photograph from his pocket, which he handed to Morgan. Morgan unfolded it and smoothed it out. Though there were long white streaks running through the middle where it had been folded, the figure in the picture was still clearly distinguishable: It was a young woman dressed in a graduation gown and waving her certificate over her head. When he looked up Ambrose had tears in his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away.

"Who is this?" Morgan asked. "Come on, Ambrose, you're not in any trouble."

Ambrose sniffed, then stuck his chin out as if daring Morgan to comment on the tears.

"It's my mom," he said. "Clarence was supposed to give me that when I graduated high school. I knew the cops wasn't gonna give it to me, so I figured what's the harm? I didn't touch nothin' else."

Morgan gave the kid a long hard stare, which Ambrose returned with the same hard look of defiance. After a moment, Morgan sighed and handed the photo back to him. Ambrose snatched it and then carefully refolded it before sticking it back in his pocket.

"So I can go now?" he said, turning toward the door.

"Hold up," said Morgan. "You're off the hook, kid, but we've still got a few questions. You were around Clarence a lot, right?"

Ambrose nodded. "I came around a few times a week, yeah."

"You ever see anyone strange hanging around the house, anyone you didn't recognize?"

Ambrose shook his head.

"Clarence had a lotta people around, but they was mostly kids, people he was helpin' out. Clarence was a good guy, he never turned anybody away."

"What about people he did know?" said Rossi. "Did Clarence hang out with anyone who seemed a little off, or who just didn't quite belong?"

Ambrose shook his head again, a little more fiercely this time.

"Nah, man, like I said, Clarence was…"

He trailed off, his expression going slack, his eyes focused on a point above Rossi's shoulder.

"What is it, Ambrose?" said Morgan.

"There was a guy," said Ambrose. "None of us knew him, but he worked with Clarence on the neighborhood watch. They used to hang out all the time, but none of us knew his name because Clarence always said he was real private. I sorta got the feeling Clarence was helping him out with something and he just didn't want anyone to know. A lotta guys are like that when they ask Clarence for help, they like to keep it secret, you know? And Clarence never said no to that."

"What was different about this guy?" Morgan said. "What made him stand out?"

Ambrose shrugged. "I dunno. I guess just 'cuz he was always around, you know, but he never wanted to talk to anyone. Clarence really seemed to like him though. Like, not just someone he was helping, like a real friend, you know?"

"Did you ever get a good look at him?" said Rossi.

Another shrug.

"I dunno, he was white, not too tall. Had the kinda face you forget after seeing once. I don't know if I could recognize him if I saw him. Look, that's all I know. Can I go home now?"

Rossi and Morgan exchanged a glance before Morgan replied.

"Yeah," Morgan said. "You've been really helpful."

They led Ambrose outside and after Morgan got an address where they could find him—a shelter down the road—they headed back to the SUV, Morgan shaking his head all the way.

"If I wasn't sure Dean was innocent before, there's no doubt now. This guy was the glue of this neighborhood. What's that kid gonna do now that he hasn't got anyone to show him where to go, huh?"

"He seemed like a good kid," said Rossi, climbing into the passenger seat. "Hopefully Dean left enough of an impression that he'll be able to find his own way."

Morgan climbed into the driver's seat, still shaking his head. "I've seen too many kids fall by the wayside that way, and so have you Rossi. Doesn't saying they'll find their own way feel like a cop-out to you?"

"Every day."

Rossi's voice said clearly that that was all he was going to say on the subject—that they had their job and they had to do it, and trust that someone somewhere would make Ambrose their job…even if no one did.

They had barely made it out of the neighborhood when Morgan's cell rang. He gave himself a mental shake and picked it up.

"Hey, Garcia."

"By what superhuman powers have you ascertained the secret identity of Techno Girl?"

Despite himself, Morgan grinned. "What have you got for me, sweet thing?"

"I told you I was a superhero, didn't I?" said Garcia. "Well, I have used my own super powers to delve into the dark recesses of this case and I have come out victorious. Earl Shane had a partner in crime."

Morgan lowered the phone and hit the speaker so that Rossi could also listen.

"What do you mean, partner in crime?"

"Well, maybe not any actual crime, per se, but I finally got the files from Mr. Shane's computer, including his own personal computer, and he had an acquaintance he hadn't told Mrs. Shane about."

"You mean an affair?" said Rossi.

"Two heroes at once," said Garcia. "Glad to hear you've joined us, O bearded avenger. And to answer your question, no. This secret friend was a man, and there's nothing to suggest that they were more than friends, if you know what I mean. However, Shane seemed to enjoy this someone—who is not named—more than he enjoyed his own wife. This whole thing reads like a schoolgirl's journal—'Can't wait to see X again, X is coming over tonight, X told the most amusing story…' From what I can tell Shane was doing this person some sort of favor and it quickly turned into best friendship. They met every Wednesday when Mrs. Shane was at book club."

"And there's no description, no name?"

"I'm following up on it, but no. He's not in Shane's client list, either, because the whole thing was under the table."

"Listen, Garcia, we just came from Dean's house and one of the kids he was helping told us a similar story. I need you to call Hotch and Emily and tell them to ask Hanes' wife about it when they find her. You did good, Baby Girl."

"As always, mon ami, your wish is my command. Get home safe!"

She hung up. Morgan locked his phone and stuck it in his pocket, then turned to Rossi.

"What do you think?" he said.

Rossi raised a shoulder, characteristically unwilling to show his excitement.

"Well," he said, "it's something."


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Nancy Hanes sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window through the ratty curtains and wringing her hands in her lap, her knees bouncing up and down. Emily sat on the other bed facing her, while Hotch stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. The meager light coming from the lamp on the bedside table did little to lighten the room or the mood, and every few seconds it would flicker, casting them all in momentary darkness. When this happened, Mrs. Hanes would startle but would never take her eyes off of the window.

"You're a hard woman to track down, Mrs. Hanes," said Emily.

They had spent the better part of the day trying to find the woman—not really a record, but more difficult than they would have expected from a timid woman like Nancy Hanes.

"Can't have been that hard," the woman replied. "And you should call me Nancy. Carl's dead, so I guess he's not my husband anymore." She stuck the fingers of her right hand into her mouth and bit on a nail with a loud snap.

Emily looked at Hotch, who nodded for her to go on. It was better for a woman to conduct this interview, on that they had agreed before entering the hotel room. It had only been a guess, since Nancy had never filed any charges against her husband while he had been alive, but now that they were here her body language screamed its confirmation: Nancy Hanes was a textbook battered woman.

"Nancy," said Prentiss. "That's fine."

"How did you find me?" Nancy said. "Did my sister tell you where I was?"

"She told us you had gone to a hotel," said Emily. "We had our technical analyst at Quantico track your credit card purchases. You made a withdrawal at an ATM a few miles down the road. Quite a large one, actually. Are you planning on going somewhere, Nancy?"

At last Nancy looked Prentiss in the eye, though her knees bounced all the more rapidly. When she spoke, she spoke around the fingers in her mouth.

"I don't have anywhere to stay now that Carl's dead," she said. "There's no law that says I can't leave now that he's dead, is there?"

She placed a strange emphasis on the word _dead_, repeating it as often as she could, like a mantra.

"Nancy, your husband was murdered," said Emily, her voice conveying more patience than Hotch knew she felt: It was past midnight, and that meant that one of their four days had slipped away while they were tracking the woman down. "You have to stay where the police can contact you until this is resolved."

Nancy made a strangled noise, a scoff that got caught on a very different sound, a turned back to the window.

"Are you here to arrest me, then?"

"You haven't crossed state lines yet," said Prentiss.

"That's not what I meant. Are you going to arrest me because of Carl?"

At last Hotch stepped away from the door and into the flickering light.

"Why would we do that, Nancy?" he said.

Although he kept his voice soft, Nancy flinched when Hotch addressed her.

"You think I killed him, don't you? You're working with the police so you must. Well if you're here to arrest me I'd like some time to get my dress on. I'd rather not go to the station in my nightgown."

"Did you have something to do with Carl's murder, Nancy?" said Emily.

Nancy looked at her sharply, her nails flying from her mouth.

"No I didn't," she said. "But that doesn't really matter, does it? Those cops Carl works—_worked_—with aren't going to believe me, so what's the point?"

Emily glanced at Hotch again and then leaned toward Nancy, resting her elbows on her knees.

"Nancy, we're here with the FBI. We might be working with the police on this case, but we're only concerned with finding the truth. If you can help us do that, then you don't have anything to fear from us."

Nancy lowered her head, but kept her gaze on Emily, her eyes occasionally darting to Hotch and back. She took a deep breath before she spoke again, her hands running up and down her thighs.

"Do they know I'm here?"

"Does who know you're here?"

"The other—the people Carl worked with, I mean. Did you tell them where I am?"

"We're the only ones who know where you are, Nancy," said Hotch. "But if you're afraid that the police are going to blame you for this, you should know that I already spoke with Detective Kramer earlier, and they don't suspect you. You are aware that we're here because we believe your husband's murder was one in a series?"

Nancy sniffed as the light flickered again, and it took Hotch a moment to realize that there were tears rolling down her face.

"I know," she said. "But I can't go back there. You don't know what they were like—they always…" She took a gasping breath. "I was always so _scared_. Carl would tell them things about me so that I could never ask for help, would try to make it sound like it was my fault that he"—She broke off again and placed her hands on the bed with such force that clouds of dust rose from the ratty covers.

Emily leaned forward, placed a hand on Nancy's knee. Nancy didn't shy away from the contact.

"Take your time," she said.

Nancy nodded, lifted her head and looked away as she brushed tears from her cheeks.

"I can't go back there," she said. "They'll find a way to make my life hell. They already did, but now that Carl's gone they'll make him a martyr. 'Poor Carl Hanes, lived with a disobedient wife and then died a cop's death'…" She laughed bitterly. "I can't ever go back to that."

Emily kept her hand on Nancy's knee as she leaned closer to her.

"Nancy," she said, "you don't have to. You think those cops have any say what goes on beyond their jurisdiction? You can get out of here and never have to think about them again because they have nothing to hold over you. You can start a new life, do whatever you want, be whatever you want. But until you help us do our job, you're going to be stuck here. Do you understand?"

Nancy stopped crying. She nodded.

"What do you need to know?"

Emily nodded, suppressing a smile of relief and satisfaction. She pulled out her notepad.

"We really only have one important question," she said, flipping through her notes. "Nancy, did your husband have any friends he didn't want you to ask questions about?"

Nancy stiffened visibly, her head snapping up. Emily recognized the body language; with their first question they had struck a chord. But she also recognized what came next, the way Nancy shifted her body so that her knees were no longer pointed at Emily, the way her hands leapt to her lap and clasped each other, vice-like….Whatever Nancy knew, she was not going to give it up easily.

"You mean an affair?" said Nancy.

"Not necessarily," said Emily, though a glance in Hotch's direction told her that he had seen the signs as well.

"Because Carl was having an affair."

Hotch and Emily didn't bother to conceal their shared look of surprise this time. Perhaps they had read her wrong.

"Are you—?"

"I'm positive," said Nancy. "Every Friday. I work the evening shift, so I was never home, but I started to notice it when I paid the bills at the end of the month—he was going out to bars and restaurants, going to shows…the bill was always for two, he always paid…it wasn't hard to figure out what was going on."

Emily noted this, then said, "Did you ever confront your husband about this?"

Nancy scoffed. "Of course not. It wasn't as if he was trying to hide it anyway."

"And you never saw this person."

There was no doubt about it; something flickered in Nancy's expression, and she turned her head.

"No, I didn't."

"Are you certain about that?"

"I think I'd remember if I'd seen the person my husband was having an affair with!"

Emily nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry."

"Nancy," said Hotch, stepping forward, "would it be possible for us to review the records from the restaurants and bars your husband was frequenting?"

Nancy frowned. "I don't have them with me."

"I understand, but if we could have your account information it might expedite the process."

Nancy looked at him with a considerably harder gaze than she had given Emily.

"I'll see what I can do for you."

* * *

An hour later, once the standard questions were through—Did your husband have any enemies, Did you notice any unusual activity, etc.—Hotch and Emily stepped into the cool night air, which was wonderfully fresh after the musty interior of the motel. Once they were out of earshot of Nancy Hanes' room, Hotch turned to Emily.

"What did you think about that?"

Emily shook her head. "She was definitely hiding something. You saw how tense she got when we asked if she knew who her husband was seeing. She was scared, Hotch, and not of her husband."

"I agree," said Hotch, his frown deepening. "I'll get Garcia to track her cards and cell in case she tries to run—we may need to talk to her again. Until then I think it's safe to say we have our common denominator; I don't doubt Carl Hanes' affair is actually the same man Morgan and Garcia found." He sighed. "Let's call the others and get to the hotel. We'll have to resume in the morning."

They walked back to the SUV, where Emily paused.

"Well," she said, "at least we have our suspect."

Hotch nodded. "Now we just have to find out who that suspect is."


	7. Chapter 7

7.

"No offense, sir, but I don't think this is getting us anywhere," said Delbrooke.

Reid glanced up from the musty volume he had been inspecting—records of all of the homes in Hanes' neighborhood—and noted that both Sanders and Delbrooke were looking at him with identical expressions which conveyed their frustration. Reid had to suppress a sigh. In all actuality they were probably correct; they had been running through maps and records for nearly two full days now, meaning they had only two days before their unsub struck again, and they were no closer to finding him than they had been when Reid had discovered the connection between the houses. He wanted to tell the two officers—who by all accounts had been the only ones who had been kind to him at all since he had arrived—that their efforts would eventually yield some results, but he was starting to doubt this himself. He closed the record book and pushed it aside.

"Maybe we need to try a new angle," he said. "Books don't seem to be doing us much good in this situation."

Sanders' look of frustration cracked and became a grin, and he nudged Delbrooke in the side.

"How many times do you think he's said that in his life, Delbrooke?" he said.

"I'm betting he can count on one hand," said Delbrooke.

"Actually, I've read quite a few books which I can say with confidence have no practical use," said Reid. "For instance, a friend of mine recently convinced me to read the _Twilight_ series."

Sanders laughed appreciatively, his head thrown back. "Don't let my wife hear you say that," he said.

"Oh, no!" Reid could feel himself blushing. "I didn't mean it like that—I just meant that they don't serve a functional purpose like a manual or textbook. In terms of escapist fantasy they're actually quite fascinating, and although many literary theorists discount the place of popular literature in the history of the tradition of the novel, I've always thought—"

"Dr. Reid," said Delbrooke, who was also smiling, though not as widely as Sanders, "he was joking."

"Didn't mean to set you off there, Doc," said Sanders, still grinning. "Sorry. What did you mean about approaching this from another angle?"

Reid swallowed, an uneasy smile finding its way onto his lips. He wasn't quite used to the banter that bounced back and forth between Delbrooke and Sanders yet—though it reminded him of the way Morgan spoke, even Morgan had not gotten used to his presence so quickly when he had joined the team. He felt like a third wheel in what was obviously a close and developed friendship between Sanders and Delbrooke, and it knocked him off balance when they included him in their jokes.

Clearing his throat, Reid turned away and flipped the chalkboard over, revealing a fresh side.

"I just meant," he said, "that we've been trying to think about this from a historical or geographical standpoint, but in all likelihood that's not it at all. We know this unsub knows his victims—that means these killings are personal. So the houses must have a personal significance as well. We just need to think like the unsub."

He looked around at them, inviting their ideas. They hesitated for a moment, then Sanders said, "Maybe he lives in the area?"

Reid shook his head. "No, there's no common point within the locations of the first three murders, and besides, the only way he wouldn't have gotten caught was by assuring that no one from those neighborhoods would recognize him. He had to be familiar with the areas, but he almost certainly wasn't a resident of any of them."

"Maybe he had an old house himself?"

"It's possible," said Reid, frowning, "but it doesn't explain why he'd want to kill these men, nor why he'd be so meticulous in doing so."

"Maybe he used to have an old house," said Delbrooke, "and he lost it somehow."

Reid's frown deepened, and he had to remind himself that these two were police officers, not profilers.

"That would make more sense if he was attacking the people who had taken his house away from him, but we would have noticed a connection like that. Let's try not to think of the house as his main motivation, but as part of his method. How do old houses factor into his ritual?"

They all fell silent. Sanders ducked his head, folding his arms over his chest as he thought, and Delbrooke stared at the chalkboard until his eyes glazed over.

"You call this work?"

They all started and turned to the doorway. A short man with a face like a bulldog had appeared there, and he was scowling at all of them with utter disdain. Lieutenant Harroway had been checking in on them every few hours since Reid had arrived, and he made no secret about why. Now, of course, was no exception.

"So they send the FBI here to take our cases, our glory, and our force so they can what? Stare at each other?"

Reid straightened and cleared his throat a second time.

"We were actually trying to think of—"

"Save it," said Harroway. "I'm not here for the show."

Reid bit his lip. Harroway was referring to the last time he had come into the room, searching for evidence that the FBI was wasting their time, and Reid had deigned to prove that they were not with a lengthy exposition on nineteenth century architecture. It had seemed innocent enough, but if Reid was totally honest he _had_ done it to get a rise out of the abrasive lieutenant, who knew he could not strike back against something so innocuous without ramifications. He held his tongue now, however, because Harroway's beady eyes were filled with flames just for him…though he had a hard time swallowing the smile that rose to his lips at the look on Harroway's face.

"Sorry to interrupt your little soiree," Harroway continued, "but your wife is here for you, Sanders."

He shot Reid another look of loathing and ducked out of the room.

Reid glanced at his watch. "It's only five," he said. "I thought you were all going to work late until the case is finished?"

Sanders rubbed the back of his neck, already turning for the door.

"Sorry, Doc. She usually picks me up when she's finished with work. I told her not to come tonight, but she must've forgot. Give me two seconds?"

"Hey, Sanders, why don't you introduce Dr. Reid?" said Delbrooke. "Eileen would get a kick out of this guy."

Reid suppressed a look of discomfort. Meeting other officers' wives was not on his agenda for the night, not when the clock was making more progress than they were.

"Come on, Dr. Reid," said Delbrooke. "We're not making any headway on these houses, maybe a break will clear your head."

"I actually find that I'm less clearheaded when my train of thought isn't linear."

Sanders barely concealed an eye-roll.

"Yeah, but you've already been interrupted. Come on, it'll just take a minute. And he's right—my wife'll love to meet a real FBI agent."

"I really don't think I'm exemplary of what most people would expect from—"

But it was no use. Sanders and Delbrooke were already herding Reid out of the cramped office and into the hallway which led to the front of the police station.

The bull pen was emptier than it had been all day, caught in a rare moment of relative calm while the officers who weren't working with the BAU filtered out and those who were working the night shift trickled in. Standing by the front entrance, conspicuously out of place, was a pretty woman with long brown hair. She had her hands resting on the bulge of her stomach, clearly pregnant, and she smiled at them as they approached.

"I just talked to Marissa," she said as soon as they were within earshot. "She told me you had to work late; I was just about to leave."

Sanders approached his wife and gave her a quick kiss.

"I meant to call," he said, "but we sort of lost track of the time. I thought we'd say hi, anyway, and I'd introduce you to Dr. Reid."

He gestured to Reid, who uncrossed an arm just long enough to give a halfhearted wave, his mind still on his notes, which were lying on the table in the cramped back office. He barely noticed Eileen's wide smile.

"Bill's been talking about you," she said. "It's a pleasure to meet you in person. I sort of thought he was making you up."

"I'm…quite real," said Reid, attempting a smile himself. "Though my teammates like to say I'm merely lifelike."

"He didn't tell me you were funny though," said Eileen, laughing. "But I'm glad you're here. It always shakes me up when something like this happens. Feels too close too home, you know?"

"You shouldn't worry," said Reid. "We think the murders are based on a pattern which doesn't necessarily involve the fact that Carl Hanes was a police officer. It's more likely it has to do with a personal vendetta."

"Well, I guess we're lucky Bill hasn't had much time to make enemies," said Eileen. "Though he has managed to get put in detention already."

"I think the big boys call it desk duty," said Bill, who had an arm wrapped around her shoulder. He was displaying her, but it didn't seem possessive, merely proud. Reid shuffled his feet as Eileen smiled affectionately at her husband and wondered how much longer it was prudent to stand here before he could excuse himself back to the case.

Eileen's eyes roved to Delbrooke.

"And Leon, how are you?" she said. "I keep telling Bill we need to have you over for dinner again; you're always such a pleasure. I still can't understand why no one's snatched you up, but I'd at least like to feed you until someone does."

"I'd love to," said Delbrooke, as Reid became more and more conscious of his otherness in the conversation, "but please let me cook. I don't think you need to be on your feet any longer than you have to."

"I'm really getting huge, aren't I?" She looked down at her belly. "I'm getting to the point where all I want to wear is sweatpants, but unfortunately I've got to go dress shopping in the morning. I haven't got anything to wear to the funeral."

Reid looked up, his heart already hammering though he didn't yet understand why. Swallowing dryly, he said, "Funeral?"

The smile slid from Eileen's face.

"Yes, for Officer Hanes," she said. "Are you going to be there? I know you didn't know him, but…" She shrugged.

"Is the funeral open to the public?" said Reid.

Eileen shook her head, looking to her husband, who was frowning at Reid.

"Uh…yeah. Nancy wasn't around to make arrangements, so the department took care of it. They wanted it to be open to the families of people Hanes had…helped," Sanders said, barely managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "The service is going to be held outside, I think."

"What about the others?"

Sanders' frown deepened.

"I don't…?"

"The other funerals. Were they open to the public?"

"Um…yes, I think so. Dean's was, anyway, and I think Shane's wife opened the last part of the service to her husband's clients, and that was a pretty long list….Why?"

Reid turned abruptly without replying, walking stiff-legged toward the back office as quickly as he could without running. He could hear Sanders and Delbrooke jogging after him, but he didn't turn around, not stopping until he was back in the office and had snatched his cell phone from the table where he had left it. He pressed a number on his speed dial and held it to his phone, his fingers twitching.

"This is Hotchner."

"Hotch, it's Reid," he said, unable to conceal the excitement in his voice. "I think I know why the unsub is attacking people who own old homes, and if I'm right we might be ready to give the profile."


End file.
